


Your Eyes Are My Light

by thisaccountisdone



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 11:04:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisaccountisdone/pseuds/thisaccountisdone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss wakes up in the hospital to find Cinna sitting by her side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Eyes Are My Light

His hands are circled around my wrist as I awaken and I can feel him so close yet so far. My head is pounding a steady drumbeat that reminds me distantly of the countdown before the games begin. He smiles as my eyes flutter open. The morphling blurs his face; the dark skin, gold eyeliner, burning eyes. It becomes a flame beneath my blurred eyesight and I am drawn towards it.  
  
I reach out an unsteady hand. My arm is weak and burns with blinding pain. Black dots shatter across my field of vision but I blink them away. I keep reaching until my hand finds his skin. It feels so far away. Like I’m not really touching him. For a moment, I think it’s a hallucination brought on by the morphling. But he doesn’t stop smiling. His eyes are tinged with sadness and I want to stop it. Stop him. Make him whole. Unravel him until I can see inside and make him new.  
  
I try to keep my eyes from finding the scars my fingers can feel. They’re so light; little pricks of upraised flesh. Is that leftover from the beating? The memory springs forward before I can stop it. It stings like a fresh wound and leaves me disoriented. I’m reeling. He was hurt because of me. He’s sitting here in front of me but that image is still branded in my mind. Forever.  
  
His hand reaches up to press mine against his cheek. I let out a soft sigh I didn’t realize I had been holding in and warmth floods me. Is this what I’ve been waiting for? I can see in his eyes a question that’s been lingering in my mind since the night of the Quarter Quell. The night where he was beaten, probably tortured, because of me. For me. To send a message to me.  
  
I never allowed myself to think about it. In the games, I didn’t have time to parse out those feelings. Peeta. Gale. Cinna? But apparently he was at the forefront of them. Every touch came naturally. The tears that sprang to my eyes in that moment were real. He leans down to press his lips lightly to my forehead. I’m struck with how soft they are and how he smells so overwhelmingly like cinnamon.  
  
“Don’t cry,” he murmurs softly. A light hand finds its way to brush my hair back. He strokes it softly and I close my eyes to lean into the touch. I lie there, unmoving, letting him trace the lines in my face and stroke my hair. Each touch sends another shockwave of warmth throughout my body and a pang of something I can only describe as electric hits my stomach. I have never felt anything like this. Not with Gale. Not with Peeta.  
  
I realize that I’m craving his touch. Each light pad of his fingers across my skin is not enough. I can feel myself letting out a shaky breath but it seems to be from another body. His fingers are rougher now as they trail down my jaw. Can he sense my thoughts or is he consumed by the same hunger as I am? As if in answer, with the other hand still pressed against mine, he locks our fingers together.  
  
Once again, my eyes flutter open. I try to sit up but he just shakes his head. I’m struck by how weak I am. My head is pounding from the effort. I realize I can’t even lift it without thunder cracks filling my mind. My throat is dry and my lips cracked but I make myself speak. “You’re okay,” I whisper, voice hoarse from disuse.  
  
He nods and presses a kiss to the hand he’s clutching. “I’m okay,” he responds quietly. I only give a slight nod as a reply of my head but even that sends me reeling with pain. I want desperately to sit up; take him in my arms and never let go. I want to sink into him and become one. Forget the world around us. Forget Panem and the games. I will no longer be the Mockingjay. I will be Katniss and he will be Cinna and someday, we won’t even be that. Someday we’ll be nothing but dirt and ashes. It’s a slightly morbid thought but the idea of sinking into the earth with him and truly becoming one is appealing.  
  
Would he mind? Just slip away when no one’s looking and start anew. We could go far away until there is nothing familiar and begin again. Just us two. Again, he shakes his head. Somehow he always knows what I’m thinking. Yet his eyes are sad and I hold onto that. Take it as a sign that he wants the same. We just can’t right now. “If I could,” he says, eyes clouding for a moment before he blinks away invisible tears which I imagine are just creeping into the corner of his gold rimmed eyes, “I would take you far away from here. Somewhere you can be happy and free. You could hunt and sing. Most of all, you could feel safe.” His voice catches on that last word and now I’m the one telling him not to cry. I’m the one struggling to sit up so I can press a kiss to his forehead and jaw line. The crook between his neck and shoulder and his throat.  
  
He stares at me with an expression I’ve never seen on him before. It’s a mixture of protectiveness, sadness, and most of all love. Before I know it, I’m kissing him. Our lips are caught in a tangle but I can’t pull away. My insides are tugging me forward. Ever wanting more. My free hand grabs the bars on my bed as I lean in as much as possible. Filling every space between us. Yet there’s still an impenetrable gap that I don’t know how to close. The gap torn by the rebellion. Something his sewing skills will never be able to mend.  
  
Just as quickly as the kiss began, it ends. I am breathless and my head is pounding both in joy and in pain. I want more but I’m so weak and the morphling is still clouding my senses. Imagine that kiss without the morphling. I can’t help but wonder how it would feel if my senses were clear. Every touch sent lightning through me now, how would it be if I was fully able to appreciate it?  
  
I look up at Cinna; not sure what I’ll find. His eyes are burning like the first time he saw me after the Quarter Quell was announced. Like the day I became the mockingjay onstage amidst flames and ash. It’s funny how those eyes can capture me so easily. I am nothing under their gaze. Just clay to mould and craft. I think if he wanted, those eyes could send me to the ends of the earth and back. But they can also make me stay. Here, where I am needed with the rebellion. Here, where I am needed with him.  
  
Does he know the power he holds over me? Does he know that a single look could send me careening off a cliff’s edge? Already has? I wonder if this is what I was supposed to feel all those times pretending to be in love with Peeta. Cinna can craft me as easily as any garment he makes and just as beautifully. He knows just where the creases lie and how to manipulate the fabric so it shines. I wonder what I must look like to him; wild eyed and hopped up on morphling. Do I blaze like fire? Is that what he sees when he looks at me? When I look at him, I see the sun. I see the dandelion that gave me hope and the first ray of sunlight after a long winter. I see snow melting and warm fires. I see life and light. I see everything in him that I wish for in the world.  
  
More than anything, I see safety. I see a chance at happiness. Once the dust clears and the war is won, I see a life beyond anything I could ever imagine. Maybe there’s hope yet. I grip his hand tighter.  
  
Maybe everything will be okay in the end. 


End file.
